


Luce del mattino

by MrsJoyceChilvers



Category: A Room With a View - All Media Types
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 07:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5819113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJoyceChilvers/pseuds/MrsJoyceChilvers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The morning light brings with it some changes for Miss Charlotte Bartlett.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Luce del mattino

The first thing she’s aware of is the softness, and the warmth that seems to be enveloping all of her, like she’s cocooned inside a tangible notion of bliss. It’s mildly disorientating, for rarely does her bed feel this way – the mattress is now a good decade old, and the bed itself even older – the springs make their displeasure known at their continued use, and become increasingly louder with each passing year. But there is no noise now, when she gently moves to ease herself from her side on to her back. She’s not opened her eyes yet. She’s waiting, holding off, perhaps cowardly so, until she can work out what happened, why the bed doesn’t creek, and why instead of waking to the usual draft that somehow manages every morning to burrow under her blankets and leave her skin aching with the chill, she’s instead luxuriating in warmth, surrounded by what feels like satin instead of her usual cotton sheets, that are, like the bed, older than her cousin Lucy.

 

‘Ah, you’re awake. Good morning, my beautiful Carlotta.’

 

The voice brings with it a wave of clarity as memories and sensations now wash over her. The caress of skin on skin, of kisses and touches, delicate lips on her breasts, of insatiable fingers nestling and pressing, of whimpers and moans, and of the sound of her name in its Italian form. Eleanor told her it meant “free” - “and you are now, my darling. You are free. We are free to be.”

 

She slowly opens her eyes. She cannot avoid reality, the morning has come and with it the undeniable truth about what's happened. She's not in her own bed, not even in her home. And she's not alone. She can't quite bring herself to look over to her side yet, although she doesn't need to. She knows who is there, whose bed she's in. She knows whose hands touched her the night before, whose fingers eased between her legs and caressed her until she whimpered and moaned incoherently. The thought makes her blush, and suddenly the decadent warmth of the bed feels too much, with heat rising from her own skin - her own body betraying her, turning on her, making her so acutely aware of everything that is different about this particular morning. The different sheets, the different bed, the person beside her. 

 

She feels the tender touch of a hand against her side, and suddenly she is struck by another difference, something she hasn't experienced before. She's not wearing her nightgown. In the morning haze and warmth, she never noticed, but as the hand gently eases around her waist, there can be no denying of her state of undress, of the feel of bare skin against her own. Nor can there be any denying of how much she likes it. A faint whimper escapes her lips before she even realises it, and then she feels the feather-light kisses against her cheek and neck. Soft and seeking - kisses that explore and claim, that gloriously heady mixture of the new and the familiar, of someone knowing how she likes to be touched.

 

Finally she looks to her side and drinks in the sight of her lover. The awkwardness and uncertainty fade. The old darkness, the old Charlotte who wallowed in cowardice, who hid her heartbreak behind a thick wall of primness and apology is gone. She'd first sent her away the night before - putting her herself in Eleanor's hands, surrendering herself to Eleanor's kisses as she let the Charlotte of her youth burst forth for the first time in decades. But old habits die hard. She told this to Eleanor, the evening before. There will be doubt, fear, the gnawing timidity that condemned her to a spinster’s life can't just be banished in one night, but as she reaches out her hand to caress Eleanor's cheek, she knows that nothing can be the same again. Goodnight Charlotte Bartlett, good morning Carlotta.

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thank you to Cristina for her beta skills.


End file.
